


July 1982

by WarriorOmen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 80's, Canon Compliant, Clubbing, Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Historical References, Humour, M/M, Pre-Movie, Queer History (Referenced), Romance, Smoking (Background Characters), Smoking Referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarriorOmen/pseuds/WarriorOmen
Summary: When a long and tedious stakeout ends up being a bust, Joe decides its as good a chance as any to find a motorcycle and take Nicky out of town to far more entertaining places than dingy motels with bad television.---Or, a story that started out as random fluff spiraled out of control, and turned into motorcycle Joe and clubbing in the early 80's.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	July 1982

**Author's Note:**

> This story escaped from me completely, and the thoughts of 'channel surfing and motorcycle Joe' just completely spiraled on me.
> 
> Like to yell? Chat? Scream? Come yell at me about things on [Tumblr](https://coffeebeannate.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Self Beta'd.

_“Call 1-800-5321-1032 for your free trial of Buster’s Busting Bursters today! Again, that’s 1-800-53-"_

_“Not a cloud in the sky as the heat-“_

_“Jonathan Davidson Markham Ziggamorta! How could you ever *crackling sobs*, do such a thing to me? To us!? *muffled crying*, “Our children, they-“_

_*Excessive Shooting Noises*_

_“If you would please stand, for the miracle, of reanimation! We can, at such time predict that-“_

_*Click*_

Nicky stares at his own reflection in the now-blackened screen, running a bored hand down his face.

Cripes, these long and painstakingly slow stakeouts were awful.

Especially one’s like this where monitoring could take weeks, or months. With information that was so vague that Andy had hesitated even taking the job, but things had been slow enough that they agreed.

Now, here they are, in a dingy motel shoved off to a roadside in what they all discern as Mid-West America, hovering between state borders and wishing they had something more to do than drive each other nuts with unsatisfying work days and constant circling of one another.

A crumpled newspaper near the ratty bedside table helpfully proclaims that it’s July 1982, and that the current heatwave had no intention of breaking anytime soon. Nicky isn’t heat-adverse (obviously), but there’s something so infuriatingly stuffy about the combination of motel and dead air that he’s half a mind to claw his own face off from frustration, his thumb chasing a stubborn bead of sweat across his forehead that seems to be deliberately taunting him.

Not that he was alone in this. They’d been shoved up in this double room for almost three weeks, and the heatwave had been near steady the entire time. Two beds, Nicky and Joe at the left of the room, Andy and Booker the right, with their sunken lumpy mattresses and absinthe green blankets barely more serviceable than the floor.

And Nicky knew that things were getting tense in this dust-cloud hellhole when Andy woke up before any of them that morning by kicking Booker square in the ribs (Nicky not even speculating what angle she’d contorted herself into for the ability to do that) and cursing at him in four languages about snoring before shoving him to the floor. Where he landed with a thud that made him squawk and woke him and Joe up fully. Nicky alert and concerned and Joe grumbling in his half-sleep sluggishness about something incomprehensible.

Now, several hours later, Nicky is currently alone. Andy having stalked off shortly after giving Booker his rude shoved to the floor awakening and had not yet returned. Booker and Joe leaving to do whatever in the city sometime after breakfast.

Nicky had opted to stay in, he liked the rare moments of alone time.

Except, that had been hours ago now, and he was bored and becoming increasingly irritable with the stiff heat.

Years ago, when radio was still thriving, and TV was brand new-the world had erupted in flurries about idleness from sitting on the couch for entertainment. How people would never be bored again. All kinds of nonsense that Nicky has seen countless times in his life where new technologies breed suspicion and contempt.

Considering there’s never much on the damned thing beyond bullshit, Nicky can’t say he’s surprised that TV did not become some great electronic demon from beyond. (Though some seemed to disagree anyway).

Glancing across the room to the beds, Nicky can see the small wooden clock radio telling him in dull red numbering that it is just after two pm. There’s a corner store up the road from the motel, and he’s burned through whatever books he had on hand already. His companions are still out, the television is yet again a monstrous disappointment, and he’s about ready to kick the slow-moving weak ceiling fan above his head in with the business end of his favourite sniper rifle.

Time to go out himself. Not like there was any actual activity, hadn't been since they damned well got here.

Resigned, he shoves himself out of the eyeball watering yellow chair and stalks to the door, checking to make sure he has actual money on hand in his wallet with the blissfully fake ID that Booker had conjured up-attempting not to cringe at the small black lettered Nicholas Smith that stares back at him every time he opens the damned thing.

It’s not like having various identities bothers him-they got used to that long ago (it’s not as bad as Joe’s, which still feels so wrong in both of their heads and on their tongues), but it’s still so impersonal he feels a little chagrined by the necessity of it.

Discerning that yes, he has suitable funds, he shuts the thing and heads out the door, the old lock clicking harshly behind himself, grunting when the scorching afternoon sun hits him square in the face, forcing him to hastily pull down his sunglasses to avoid being completely blinded, followed by a dark blue baseball cap that has the name of some completely random bar on it that Nicky forgets even being in, before heading up the road.

It takes hysterically little time to push into the sad corner store, the teenage girl behind the counter barely looking up from her magazine long enough to acknowledge that yes, there is another person in here-before he starts to browse.

Sometimes, these places carried all sorts of items for sale, cheap paperbacks being a favourite of Nicky’s, even if some should never have been published in the first place. Nicky more than once wondering what desperate publishing house was so on the verge of bankruptcy that such a thing MUST be put to print, but it passes the time and serves as a general amusement.

“Excuse me”, Nicky says, his usual soft voice not getting him much more than a glance from the girl behind the counter, wearily eyeing the half-dressed singer on the shockingly bright orange background of the mag, “Do you carry any books?”

She looks at him like he may be a few bricks short, and lifts the magazine helpfully in his eye line, “At the back, near the cat food, little rack.”

He doesn’t miss the question in her tone, but Nicky really isn’t bothered by a girl clearly just bored out of her skull and counting the hours to clock out, “Thank you” Shifting away from her.

Cannot keep her from the pop-star gossip, after all. Finding the rack rather easily-though the state of it leaves much to be desired.

As he anticipated, it’s mostly two dollar Harlequin Romance, bodice-ripping fantasies that all seem to have the same man superimposed into various positions with vaguely different dead-eyed women, but they’re cheap and he gets the entertainment value just fine.

But not today, the day is far too dreary as it is for that.

Unfortunately, aside of those there is extraordinarily little to choose from.

Some pulp crime that may have once been serialized in magazines-and he sees enough crime, thank you very much.

A few children’s books, general bright covers, and simplistic titles.

And that seems to be all.

He’s attempting to not be disappointed, but he’d have not minded at least something to pass the time, before standing and checking out the magazines instead.

Much like the television, the superficial nonsense leaves nothing but hollow exasperation in his chest, and he leaves the entire area be, wandering the store instead and checking out the various food goods and standard house supplies.

Eventually, after Nicky’s circled the store twice with nothing to come of it, he coincides defeat. But feeling bad that he’s wandered this place without doing much of anything, grabs a handful of candy from the side of the till, another newspaper from he didn’t even know which state and sets it all on the counter. Not wanting to have wasted the cashier’s time.

And, just for the goddamned hell of it-though mainly thinking of Booker and Andy, asks her for a pack.

“Yeah, what brand?” She asks, turning to the rows upon rows of boxes behind herself.

Oh right.

They never cared, really.

He glances quickly over her shoulder, “Kings” because he really had no clue and didn’t feel like lingering in here anymore.

Fortunately, she seems to care even less, grabbing the pack and adding it to his strange array of purchases-cigarettes and candy, like he’s 17, good lord, and rings him up.

“Bag?” Once he’s paid.

“Please”

Nicky’s out the door, brown paper bag tucked under his arm, before he stops short and nearly drops the thing, eyes widening comically behind the sunglasses, feeling utterly frozen solid to the pavement.

What. The. Hell.

900 years old. He’s 900 years old and completely rooted to the ground from surging lust and excitement because, sitting in the parking lot of this store, is Joe.

But it’s not just Joe, it’s some iteration of Joe that is currently straddling a massive black motorcycle, leaning over the handlebars like he owns the thing (which Nicky really hopes he does) and staring straight at Nicky with all the confidence of someone who has well and truly surprised his husband.

It should be infuriating, but smug is a look that Nicky rather adores on Joe. Mostly because it looks more goofy than cocky, hopelessly endearing, and entirely sexy.

It’s not at all helped by the fact that Joe, in his usual overly devoted way, has gone entirely all out with the look, dark black hip-hugging, thigh strangling jeans, heavy black boots, a dark black v-neck t-shirt beholding the name of some current band Nicky does not recognize nor care about, and a black studded leather jacket Nicky knows damned well is fake and does not care one iota about that, because he looks fucking edible.

“You approve, then.” Joe says, probably sweltering in the get up and not caring whatsoever because he’s forced Nicky to swallow his own goddamned tongue, “Booker’s fake papers have gotten much better.”

To be entirely fair, Joe’s been able to drive both car and bike since the 30’s, but this? This combination is a radiating, pelvis throbbing nightmare that makes Nicky’s overheated head spin with barely controlled lust that is still threatening to cut off his air supply.

And he still hasn’t moved. Still completely rooted to the ground.

Joe, clearly pleased with the way he’s rendered him immobile and speechless, slides from the idle bike all snake like and sinewy, strutting forward with knee-weakening confidence and smoothly plucking the paper bag from Nicky’s stunned grasp, smirking.

“Ok babe?” Knowing full well Nicky damned well is not and relishing every second of that.

“The fuck- “Nicky finally says, tongue dry and heavy. “What-“

“Come on” Joe laughs, sliding his fingers around Nicky’s wrist, pulling him from his stupor, “You’ll roast out here.”

Which seems silly-Nicky isn’t the one decked to the nines in all black, but Joe’s already turning and the fucking jeans seem to be painted to his body, clinging to each sinful muscle of his ass like they have molded to them, and Nicky’s only able to move because he’s being physically tugged on.

The drive back to the motel is a tragic five seconds, but Nicky hardly complains, since clearly Joe has something in mind for them.

Andy and Booker are inside, the infernal useless TV back on, Booker on the floor, one knee bent into his chest, resting with his back against the bed, Andy sitting in the yellow chair Nicky had vacated.

Nicky’s still mostly tongue-tied and turned on, and Andy just rolls her eyes while Booker snorts.

“Told you the jacket was necessary” Booker helpfully chimes, “You good?”

Nicky just nodded, really, he should have known.

“Never hurts to have a second opinion for important work” Joe says, already moving to his and Nicky’s bed, Nicky blinking in confusion while Andy rifles through the paper bag.

Joe’s pulling out their duffel bag, and that usually means they’re leaving.

“Are we done?” Nicky asks, Andy sighing, thumbing through the candy bars.

“A break” She clarifies, “We’ve hit a stalemate, and it’s entirely plausible our goal is in another state.”

Nicky grimaced, they all hated busts, especially with this one having been three weeks in. “Joe suggested we split for a bit, and since I want to lovingly decapitate the lot of you, it seems a fine suggestion to me.”

He’s attempting to not feel relieved. None of them mind each others company-hell they prefer it. The four of them keep the closest proximity when they can, after all, but he missed Joe. The hotel shower is barely big enough for one person- as it is some horrible single-unit thing that pretty much grants exactly no benefit for anything beyond quick clean up.

It’s not like they have to be alone, and they’re rarely so desperate they actively make things strangely tense or uncomfortable, but nobody pretends like they don’t have their own private needs. And in heat like this, the shared space can get so oppressive and thick.

“Thanks, Andy.” His voice a little quiet. Because he really doesn’t have to specify, she is already waving him off once Joe has their duffel bag over his shoulder. A fond smile teasing her lips even as she hides it behind the first candy bar wrapper.

“If you kill Booker, leave him somewhere we can find him again” Joe calls, getting two identical snorts from behind as he all but yanks Nicky from the dingy room, where the monstrosity of a bike is waiting for them.

Joe settles the bag at the back end of the bike, briefly crowding Nicky up against the giant two-wheeled behemoth before rudely parting, straddling the bike and waiting for Nicky to join up behind him, smirking over his shoulder when strong arms loop about his chest and stomach and hold on.

Nicky’s entirely content with riding, closing his eyes when the bike roars to life, kicking the vibrating tension up under his legs and settling him as Joe peels out of the parking lot, Nicky settling his head into his shoulder and watching as the landscape becomes further blurred from speed.

It’s impossible to talk on these things, wind and speed creating an echo chamber that makes all noise dim and indecipherable, but Nicky is more than comfortable, the smooth roar, the intense, yet comforting vibrations and solid security of Joe’s back creating a very attractive atmosphere indeed.

Joe is a bit of a speed demon (mostly because he knows Nicky is, and he’s more than pleased to indulge him), and it’s not until a good hour later when they pass a state sign that Nicky realizes they’re going further than he’d anticipated.

At some point, Nicky realizes he’s laughing, turning his head into the harshest bit of wind, snuggling further into Joe, who leans back slightly, deviously rolling his hips backwards somewhat dangerously, eliciting a grunt from Nicky that the other man can’t actually hear, but knows came all the same.

Signs pass, the road blurs endlessly, and neither of them bother to stop until they’ve crossed into New York, Nicky slightly puzzled by that as Joe begins to slow when actual traffic starts to thicken, allowing Nicky the ability to speak for the first time in hours, the late afternoon and evening just turning into night as they weave into the major highway, bringing them into heavier traffic.

“So", He asks, not missing the way Joe shudders against him when Nicky’s fingers find the curls at the back of his head, teasing at them. "Am I allowed insight into your devious plans?"

“Not yet.” Joe replies, in an evasive way that makes Nicky’s blood hum beneath his skin, the tone implying that whatever they are, they're bound to be enjoyable-and that Joe has already mapped their night out.

Entirely fine in Nicky’s book, he was eager to do something that wasn’t starring at peeling orange wallpaper, sharpening already glistening blades with Andy while Booker and Joe argued over whatever sport was on the blasted television at the time.

Eventually, Joe slows the bike to pull into the parking lot of a hotel, Nicky’s grunting into his shoulder.

“Are you spoiling me?” He asks, mostly muffled against shoulder and leather.

“Both of us.” Joe says, killing the engine, “I think we deserve it, after all.”

Given that Nicky isn’t entirely sure the motel they’d just left didn’t have a rat hiding in the bathroom, he’s inclined to agree.

Sure, they’d both come from far harsher conditions, and they were born centuries before indoor plumbing, but it exists currently, and it’s nice to have.

Nicky slides from the bike first, stretching his arms above his head to let his joints pop and reorient, Joe grabbing their duffel bag and heading for the lobby with him.

He studies the paintings while Joe checks them in, contemplating a dull looking floral scene when Joe whistles to get his attention, heading for his side as they take the elevator the fourth floor.

It’s a short ride up, and Joe fiddles with the door of their room for a moment before it clicks to life, Nicky eyeballing the much nicer ocean-blue blanket of the king sized bed, a more upgraded television, blue-curtain covered balcony, oak end tables and a door that probably leads to the bathroom.

He’s half-tempted to collapse on the inviting bed, but Joe only sets the duffel bag down on the floor near it before spinning on his heel, gesturing for the door once more.

“This wasn’t the plan?” Nicky asked, attempting to not sound put out when Joe only chuckles.

“It is, but not yet, I thought we'd go out.”

Well, that made sense. They’d spent the last three weeks all cooped up. And it wasn’t like Nicky was opposed to having a more vigorous evening. But well.

That could easily be done in here.

In fact, Nicky could rattle off several ways to make the room much more fun for them. And quickly. It’s not hard to get inspired with Joe, after all.

But Joe seems to still have his plans in mind, and Nicky is never one to deny him a good time. (Not that he’s ever opposed to Joe’s ideas, they tend to be mutually beneficial), so he casts a promising glance to the bed, filing it away for later, and lets himself be tugged from the room to the outdoor world yet again.

“Wait!” Nicky turns, then, just before Joe has them out the door. Removing the baseball hat and sunglasses, tossing them unceremoniously to the bed, before giving Joe his hand once more.

“Alright, lets go.” Amused when Joe kisses his nose, clearly finding him impossibly adorable. Which sure made Nicky feel adorable.

Parking in New York is a heyday, so they take to the streets on foot, Nicky not bothering to ask where exactly they’re going, content and thrilled to let Joe simply guide him along, the two of them walking side-by-side. Not touching, but close.

As they walk, the silence casual, companionable, and full of love, Nicky thinks, thoughts tended to come whenever they pleased, and he stopped fighting them several centuries ago.

It’s in places like these that Nicky is made strangely hyper-aware of the so called ‘difference’ that he and Joe present to the world. He can see it in the way things are so uniform in some locations (the state border they’d just left being one of those), and places like these big cities where things were more.

Well, mingled.

Neither he nor Joe paid a great deal of attention to the semantics of ‘alternative’ life, as it were. They both realized, from centuries beyond now but even more so in the last two hundred years that society considered them ‘other’ or ‘alternative’ (something that they’d had several discussions about) but being so much older than staunch labeling and categorizing, it was strange to them to have so many dichotomies pushed in the later centuries.

But that was how it seemed to go. The definition of normal and acceptable varying by country, by decade, by region.

Sometimes, it was quite jarring to go from being relatively ignored and not concerned to having to take extreme cautions with how they acted and behaved with one another. Because in truth, they stopped thinking of themselves as anything but a couple long before modern history was even established, and at times it gave them both a considerable headache.

On more than one occasion, Joe had huffed in exasperation, frustrated with endless intolerance that really bothered absolutely nobody, (Joe also one to get prickly when people felt obnoxiously entitled to having every single detail into their private lives, because these people would soon fade from their world anyway, and who’s business was it?) and Nicky getting increasingly and more bitingly sarcastic with every prod, sneer and deliberate aggression.

Joe distinctly recalls an incident sometime in the mid-40’s, some random incident at a restraint that spiraled out of control for no reason beyond people being nosy-Nicky’s sarcastic, irritated remarks getting progressively less so until he’d gone entirely silent, and Joe had hastily made their excuses and left before Nicky could do something he’d regret later.

Silence was the last warning most people got. Nicky rarely shouted, but he could cut through someone effortlessly with a well-placed word or two.

Scathing remarks was a term that Joe thinks suited his husband well.

Back to the present, this tended to be the hard part.

Joe had an obvious destination and idea of what he wanted in mind, and they both knew such places existed, but finding them could be uniquely challenging.

Not like the phone book was of much use for this, after all.

“Why don’t we try one of those shops?” Nicky suggests, not entirely thrilled by the idea. He and Joe never found them that nice, some sort of hazy greasiness to the places. But they did tend to be the only spots that carried magazines and papers with helpful advertisements.

Joe sighs, glancing up the road. There’s a steady flow of traffic, vehicle and foot alike, and he’s remiss to find Nicky may be right. It might very well be their best option.

“Suppose so. Guess we’ll have to head further away from this main drag here.”

That’s accurate enough, Nicky moving a touch closer, content to keep nearby.

Of the cities, New York would draw less attention to them, but things were a little tense these days, and Nicky tries to be careful. Not that he’s worried, but the hassle is rarely worth it.

It hardly takes them long to get away from the real heaviest bits of the crowd, moving through the street traffic until they’re very clearly in a more ‘adult catered’ district. More smaller shops, bars, and assorted houses that probably don’t have actual residents, but serve as additional shops and the like.

Adult stores stand out like a sore thumb, and Nicky feels slightly resigned, staring across the street at the place.

“Do these things always have to be so- “

“Gaudy?” Joe finishes, Nicky snickering softly. Because of course they’re on the same page.

The Italian flows smooth and easy between them, and the warmth of the July night air is soothing him more than he’d anticipated, turning his head to stare at Joe full on when he’s drawn into his side, automatically tilting himself into his husband’s chest to maximize the one-armed grasp.

Joe reading his mind, signals, and every other inch of his existence is hardly new, but it never fails to make Nicky’s blood run hot, his heart thudding in a contented cadence and beating so full of love it threatens to burst.

He sighs, again, “Might as well go in, least they keep the magazines and papers right near the door.”

Except neither of them moves, Joe ignoring the glaring store with it’s horrid yellow neon sign entirely, studying Nicky adoringly.

“What is it?” Nicky prods, after a comfortable silence, Joe scanning Nicky’s face carefully, making him feel like he’s being analyzed.

Which is sort of funny, given that Joe could read him like a book anyway. There’s nothing about him that Joe doesn’t already know. Hasn’t already mastered.

“Yusuf?” He tries, again, brain doing a slight victory leap when Joe growls, low and soft, before switching to English.

“It shouldn’t be so difficult, finding a decent place to get a drink, you know?”

Nicky’s puzzled only for a half-second, Joe’s eyes shifting to the right, where three men are standing outside of one of the many shops, huddled in a casual cluster.

One of them is impossibly tall, the other two more average. One has a black leather jacket similar enough to Joe’s, one looking like he’d come straight from work in what might be a suit if it had a jacket and tie, and the third in a simple yellow v-neck that’s brighter than most of the streetlights.

The smoke is hazy above their heads, creating a small cloud near the streetlight closest the trio. And Nicky leans himself more into Joe, who’s watching steadily-but clever and trained enough to not make it obvious.

Mr. Blinding Yellow Shirt says something that’s apparently funny, getting a barked out laugh from Mr. Fresh from the Office, who shoves him none to gently into Mr. Joe Wears it Better Leather Jacket.

Yellow Shirt doesn’t move for a hairsbreadth too long, and Joe’s face adopts a very slight grin. One that’s so incredibly endearing Nicky wants to kiss it right off his face, so they might share it.

Entirely on the same page now, Nicky responds, with a voice that’s slightly too loud,

“You would think they’d invent a better system. Isn’t that what advertisements are for? Forbid they ever be useful.”

He draws the last sentence out, turning slightly in Joe’s grasp so that they’re more chest to chest, both waiting patiently.

There’s no rush, after all.

It’s an old trick, but it’s effective.

Test the waters, if you think you’re in like company, and hazard on a response. Push more if it seems favourable, back off immediately if not. Don’t prod to hard and keep it casual.

The trio is still chatting themselves, not paying them a whole lot of attention. Joe hums thoughtfully, stepping back slightly, sliding his hands into the leather jackets pockets (which Nicky is instantly remiss for), and begins to walk straight for them, Nicky taking up his heel’s mere seconds after.

The groups chattering quiets some as Joe approaches, Nicky feeling a brief flash of discomfort when all three go a little tenser. It’s not an instant thing, and really, probably not even noticeable, but Nicky notices, and from the way Joe instantly smooths his shoulders out with a roll-realizes he’s noticed too.

“Evening” Joe says, all smooth and casual and ridiculously attractive, catching Nicky’s gaze from the corner of his own eyes, before turning back to them, “Could you give us a hand with some directions?”

The three men exchange a fast glance, the tallest, Mr. Leather Jacket standing just in front of the other two, not quite blocking them, but clearly being careful. “Where to?” he asks, Nicky acutely aware he’s being analyzed,

 _It’s okay, we’re safe._ He wants to say. But they both know from experience that’s not always met as kindly as one might think.

“Well.” Joe nods at him, Nicky taking the cue for what it is, sliding more into Joe’s space, letting his hip bump into him, “Not entirely sure, maybe you can help?”

Tall Leather Jacket blinks, slowly, flicking his cigarette outwards, the stub falling to the pavement to meet a swift defeat from his boot. He’s still seems slightly weary, so Nicky draws his own arm out, snaking it around Joe’s waist, “Somewhere fun” He adds, helpfully adding to Joe’s narrative, “But not.. _too fun.”_

The longest five seconds drags out, but all three of the others relax in increments. Nicky grateful that nobody’s going to be dragging away from this with blood and bad attitudes on their hands.

Yellow Shirt relaxes the most, Nicky wondering if the man had been devoid of oxygen the entire time, slipping out from Mr. Tall Leather’s expansive doorway of a body, “Try Reggie’s.” His voice cheery and light, an adept matching for his shirt, “S’not as heavy as the shit up town, you know? Nor so busy, fuck those places are-“

“Pretty sure they don’t give a right shit about your scathing review, Wallace.” Mr. Half-Suit cuts off, earning a long-suffering eye roll from the one apparently called Warren.

“If I don’t complain they’ll continue to do business,” He shrugs, ‘Besides I’m not wrong, Reggie’s is good! Good food good-“

“Thank you.” Joe interrupts, smoothly. Nicky swallowing the amused snort that wishes to escape, “We appreciate it, up this road?”

“Yeah man!” Wallace, again, rambles, “Just go up this road here, turn right, s’ the place that looks like your grandma’s bridge club, but more fun.”

That was an..interesting description, Nicky thought, Tall Leather rolling his eyes, ‘It’s brick, has a triangle roof, that is what this ass clown is trying to say.”

“And it’s exactly what I said!”

“In what language, precisely?” Suit says, “Wallace-Bullshittery?”

“Oh get fu-“

“That’s plenty, thank you.” Joe interjects, though Nicky can hear the unheard laughter in his voice, “Thank you very much, have a great evening.”

Before he can say anything himself, Nicky’s being pulled away, the trio waving at their retreating backs and still arguing as they head up the road as instructed.

Wallace, it turns out, wasn’t wrong. Reggie’s is a dark-looking triangle-roofed brick thing smack at the end of the road, illuminated only by a heavy streetlight and two flanked door lights.

“Maybe it does look like a bridge club.” Nicky hummed, Joe shaking his head beside him, the two moving up to the door, Joe about to search for a bell or something when it opens, a large bouncer stepping into the light, blocking them from getting closer.

“Gentlemen.” Holding his hand out, Nicky automatically fishing his wallet free, handing the Booker-forged ID over.

Nicky gets his back in seconds, but when Joe hands his over, the bouncer seems doubtful.

He can feel Joe about to ask what the deal is, when the bouncer just raises a brow.

“You’re- “Checking Joe’s ID again, scanning his face dubiously, “53?”

Nicky mentally cringed, Booker really needed to stop giving them random birth dates. Especially when people actually checked these damned things.

Not helped by Nicky’s claiming he’s 31. Because really, he and Joe are three years apart, Booker. And they look close in age. Come on.

Joe, bless him, just shrugged, “Suppose I have good genes.”

Nicky snorted before he could catch himself, the bouncer shaking his head, handing the card back, apparently placated by whatever he heard from them, waving them along.

“Have a good evening then, gents.”

“Thank you.” Joe returned, lacing his fingers through Nicky’s and tugging him along.

This was not a place they tended to frequent. Bars and clubs weren’t a real favourite for either of them. Joe drank little, and the crowd always seemed a bit too eager depending upon the type of club.

Still, there was a benefit to it, and there were times where they didn’t mind branching out on their own, taking a few hours to relish in safe, like company. Even if they mostly kept to themselves.

Nicky just wished these places didn’t have to be so dark from the outside. The windows were always darkened near the doors, the bouncers on constant rotation. Security was kept tight, to keep the clientele safe.

Which, necessary, and it is always much brighter once one is inside, but there’s a sadness to it that Nicky tends to dwell far too much on.

It’s not the biggest nor most popular club in the city, but that’s intentional on Joe’s part, the lights getting brighter once they’ve moved from the hall and into the club itself.

Nicky leaned into him, bumping their shoulders together, Joe’s face illuminated by the coloured lights, currently pulsing slowly, as opposed to flashing.

For a moment, Nicky just breathes him in, comforted by the scent he’s so familiar with-even masked beneath modern soap products.

Joe does a quick scan of the room from the hall, letting out a short hum of approval, flexing his fingers in Nicky’s grasp.

“Looks good.”

Meaning-not too crowded, but full enough that they can probably enjoy themselves.

“Lead the way” Nicky says, perhaps unnecessarily, as Joe is already pulling them in.  


The music is fast and quick, paced at a tempo Nicky is sure his ears will never fully be able to keep up with. Something modern and sung by the same pop stars who probably graced the cashier’s magazine from earlier this afternoon. Neither of them are bothered, though, and Nicky can see the slight gleam taking over in the dark tones of Joe’s eyes.

There’s something about these places, something freeing and enthralling that gets them both a little more keyed up. Edgier, more daring. They’re both so often forced to be on high alert, be it from a job or otherwise, that there is something intensely rewarding about those few hours where they don’t have to think too hard.

No second-guessing. No running through endless thoughts to make sure nothing was amiss, put aside or calculated.

Just pure, unbridled fun.

Nicky’s not aware he’s giggling until Joe is poking into his ribs with his spare hand, the rings on his fingers incredibly shiny in the artificial lighting, receiving a slow smirk as Nicky uses the momentum to drag Joe into himself, delighting when Joe laughs, warm against his ear.

“We’re not even at the dance floor yet.” He pretends to protest, Nicky only humming, taking a moment to gaze at him adoringly before they break apart again, starting for the bar.

Said bar is made of glass, and seems to be see-through, but in that weird deceptive way that’s opaque rather than transparent, or perhaps it is just the lightning, Nicky not knowing or caring for the semantics.

The bar tender, a short heavily muscled man with a hairstyle that seems to touch the ceiling, calls out to them without really turning around.

“What are you having?”

Nicky ponders the menu while Joe orders a beer-knowing that’ll be the only alcoholic thing he has the entire time they’re here.

“Same as his.” Nicky says, abandoning the menu staring, because he’s far more concerned with Joe and the atmosphere than the drink itself.

The two beers cost a fairly obnoxious amount, but as Joe fetches them and turns, Nicky really cannot be bothered by that, trailing behind him as Joe eyeballs a corner booth and sets the two drinks on the tabletop, sliding himself into the red leather bench seat, Nicky taking up the space beside him.

As their glasses clink, Nicky scans the club more thoroughly, attempting to make it different from scanning a battleground, but not sure he’s doing a great job of it.

Only a few of the booths are occupied, and only two of the tables, some light activity on the dance floor, conversations mostly dulled by music. People either huddled in small groups, or just couples. One or two flying solo, and bouncers scattered.

Nothing hugely outrageous, some hairstyles that Nicky can’t recall the name of, lots of t-shirts and pants in colours that rival the ceiling lights, and, in a moment of inspiration, Nicky glances down at his own white ones, amused when he sees how they almost glow in the harsh coloured lights.

Joe follows his gaze, laughing quietly around the rim of his own drink, Nicky leaning into him, forcing Joe to snake his arm around his shoulders to give Nicky the space he wants curled into his side.

“Better?” Nicky asks, after a long moment of sitting in silence.

“Getting there.” He returns, “Andy said we could have a few days, but I think she’s going to call it anyway.”

Nicky hummed, frown obscured by the glass, “If she’s not decided to do so already.”

They share in a moment of irritation, before Nicky sighs and sets the glass down, nuzzling into him, chin resting against Joe’s shoulder.

 _A thought for later,_ he communicates silently. _For now, we have fun._

“Come on” Nicky coaxes, dragging himself out of the embrace to stand, pulling on Joe, “Let’s dance.” Because Joe was still wearing that impossibly delectable outfit, and it had been teasing Nicky long enough. Expensive beer briefly abandoned, and Nicky giving exactly zero shits about that.

“How can I resist?” Joe teases, following him out of the booth, letting an adorably eager Nicky drag him out to the smooth floor, letting him slot into the space between his arms, Nicky immediately pressed up against him from neck to ankle, all slithery and sinewy and molding his hands to his back and hip, but not letting them remain idle as they roam.

Joe growls softly, only Nicky able to even realize he’s done so, the vibrations from it low and teasing against Nicky’s chest as they start to move in time to the music. Neither of them has truly gotten the hang of dancing to loud, vibrating pop, but this type of music was more of a front anyway. Dancing skirting just above the edges of petting and groping, or of grinding and exploring.

There is, Joe thinks, a certain level of pride that comes from having Nicky practically undulating against him as the shift themselves in time to the beat, feeling his hands everywhere at once, on his chest, his hips, his sides, his back, his thighs.

At some point, they wind their way into his curls, fingers threading into the dark black strands, Nicky dragging his head down until their noses bump and graze, Joe delighting in how the pink, yellow and blue lights make his eyes practically sparkle, wide and adoring as they stare at Joe.

“See something you like?” Joe can’t help but tease, shifting his hips, smirking when Nicky grunts.

“Several somethings,” Nicky responds, “Some of us aren’t walking catalogue covers, after all.”

It is mostly a joke, because Nicky’s blinding white pants are so tight that Joe can feel the shifting of his hips through the fabric, fingers itching to go lower, draw him in. He could, in theory, given the location, but Joe’s never been one for putting on a show like that. So, while his hands tease, they stay mostly above the waist, even as the one flattens into the curve of Nicky’s lower back, keeping him close.

“Oh really? Then explain this.” Joe tossed back, the hand not keeping Nicky firmly to himself skating up the lines of the soft light-pink button up, the colour so faint it could pass for white. And Joe wasn’t entirely sure when Nicky had undone the first four buttons, but he had, leaving most of his neck and collar gleefully exposed.

Nicky, curse him, only winks, dancing out of his grasp and sliding across the floor, giving Joe a teasing smirk over his shoulder, laughing in shock when Joe instantly returns, hands around his stomach, dragging him back into himself, chest to back.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” He says, mouth close to Nicky’s ear, rewarded by a low groan.

“You never answered mine” Nicky reminds him.

"That was not a question, that was a statement, and you were not specific, you merely said ‘several somethings.'

“Semantics” Nicky chuckled, sounding slightly breathless, but Joe knows it’s more excitement than exhaustion now. “Maybe if you’re good I’ll be more specific.”

Joe huffs as Nicky dances out of his grasp yet again, though Joe’s surprised to see him slide through the dance floor and vanish from sight entirely. Leaving Joe with no explanation to where he’s going, but not causing concern for it. After all, if Joe knew his mood-and tone-then Nicky had plans. Plans that Joe was more than willing to see fold out before him. He's nothing if not an eager recipient.

Amused, and a little curious, Joe slips from the floor to return to their booth, content to wait until Nicky returns.

The beer has remained untouched, and is far from flat, Joe taking it up once more and studying the dark gold liquid for a moment, letting his gaze roam the club anew.

They’ve not really drawn forth any real attention yet, which Joe hardly minds, watching the movement of some of the dancers, the talkers or the drinkers. He’s always been slightly fascinated in how the modern lighting changes one’s perception. Different colours and strengths creating visual illusions that one cannot entirely trust. A pink light on a white shirt changes the shirt colour, or how a person’s face seems almost distorted in the cast of it. Rays creating shapes, shadows, or illuminations.

It’s not hard for Joe to feel inspired, the itch in his fingers crying out to put imagery to paper. While the lighting is hardly favourable, his hand finds its way to the jacket pocket regardless, fishing out the travellers palm-sized sketchbook he’s shoved in there, sidelined by a mechanical pencil tucked into the books middle, nestled into the spine.

He starts with the lines of the club walls, but doesn’t pay them much detail, shadowy and vague backgrounds moved by the faintest presses of long strokes from the pencil, giving more shape to some background dancers then, slightly out of focus shapes that have no definitive features, but are so clearly human.

Centuries of practices gives him a quick hand, content to let the mind wander, fingers doing the work of it, speech hardly necessary. The club’s scenery, patronage and aesthetic provide more than enough inspiration, especially for casting an idea to memory with a visual.

Besides, his centerpiece is still absent, the one that will be receiving actual details, and facial features.

Joe can easily construct Nicky’s face and body from memory; but there’s something to be said for the exact moment, the very current expression, that he desires to capture to perfection whenever he has such an opportunity.

For that, he’s glad they’ve picked a slightly less aggressive club. The lights and music are a constant pulse, but not in an overbearing way, and the atmosphere is fun and causal without being too much at once.

Under a slightly purple glow, the graphite begins to darken, Joe adding more pressure to the club lines to give some detail to the internal setting, putting more focus on some figures dancing closer to the centre, leaving an opening for where he’d eventually put Nicky.

“Who the fuck _sketches_ in a club?” A voice asks from above, close to Joe’s ear, the slight play of shadows across his book cast by the voice owner standing near the table, just to the side of him, looming, but not oppressively so.

Joe doesn't respond immediately, adding a shapely line before glancing up, being met with a red-headed man who was giving him an expression that Joe couldn’t quite interpret as hostile, playful or genuinely curious.

“Is there a citation on sketching places?” Joe asked, smoothly as ever.

Somewhat predictably, the man snorts, “Suppose not, but it’s definitely one of the strangest things I’ve seen here so far-which is saying something.”

He’s leaning in now, Joe absently twirling the pencil between his fingers, feeling a satisfying tap against his rings as he does so, “Then I’d be lead to assume you don’t see that many things you would qualify as strange, if sketching is so offensive.”

Another snort, but now the man’s shifted, arms slotting across his chest, hip bumped up against the table, “Nobody said anything about leading.”

“No?” Joe returned, slightly amused, “Why word it as so, then?”

Redhead gives him a downward glance, making Joe feel as though he’s being scrutinized, not oppressively so, but analyzed in a way that makes him think. Conversations, especially in places like this, could venture between so many forms of blunt and layered that it could be a bit of a vocal challenge.

Not unlike a battlefield in a way.

He gets a huff, “Someone’s specific, so what are you sketching anyway?”

Joe blinked slowly down at the paper, because it was obvious to him, and with redhead looming from above, it’s not like he can’t see the book on full display.

Still, Joe’s feeling perhaps a little uninhibited.

“Depends, what do _you_ think I’m sketching?” Bracing the eraser of the pencil against his chin now, leaning forward into the table, eyes trained upwards.

The man peers down at the book, but to his credit-with the main space empty, there really isn’t much for the guy to work with, Joe realizes.

Still, he was the one that asked.

“Shadows and lines.”

Joe isn’t sure if he should have expected a better response, the man doesn’t seem to be one for many words or intense thought. But well, it was a club, most people didn’t need to be having deep and introspective thoughts here. So truly, Joe could probably give him a pass on that.

Above them, the lights have shifted to a slightly more aggressive pulsing flash, the music fast and heavily tempo’ d.

“Well, that’s because there’s still something missing” Joe explains, waving absently with his pencil, “Could you shift to the right a little, please?”

The man seems baffled, but he does as Joe asks, “What, are you expecting something?”

Joe doesn’t respond immediately, Nicky had been gone a good twenty minutes now, but if Joe was correct..

Ah.

There.

Nicky had moved himself to the center of the floor, not the immediate center, sort of cast to the side where he knew Joe would have a good view from their booth. Joe’s briefly amused at the idea of his husband carefully scouting out the best spot on the floor, probably down to how the lights would be at that angle.

He’d taken his time, clearly, but Joe had a feeling it would be worth it. Letting the pencil rest to the sketchbook paper, shifting himself more sideways in the booth, patiently ignoring his self-inserted current companion to study him.

He started fast, the pace of the music not allowing for a slow start. Dancing alone was never the easiest, but Nicky was completely aware of himself. And while he’d not caught Joe’s gaze yet, Joe knew damned well he knew he was watching. The white slacks catching every single beam from the coloured lights above, flashing in purple, pink, blue, green, yellow, trailing up, then down, creating patterns on the pants material and outlining muscle and shape alike.

They’d been on battlefields for 900 years, both flexible, aware of their bodies, how they moved, how they responded, and that characteristic translated very well to dancing. Able to control movements fluidly. It was such a unique balance to appear uncontrolled and yet be the exact opposite. Nicky’s strong and well fit from centuries of lifting the long sword, precise, casual but completely aware of it.

Joe’s mesmerized, his pencil barely moving, held slack in his grasp, but no matter-he’ll be able to draw fine on the memory when Nicky’s finished dancing. Much nicer to retain an entire fill now. He’s still not looked at Joe dead on, but he’s aware of him, his hands refusing to be still, stroking across his chest, above his head, down his legs, across his thighs, back around his stomach, up, down, encircling, waving, casting.

The lights shift the same moment the music gets steadier, a little slower, a long line of blue descending upon Nicky’s profile as he slowly turns himself, casting a bullet-sharp gaze across his shoulder, choosing that moment to acknowledge Joe properly and wink, low, seductive and perfect, before his head snaps back around, body slightly curved, turned into the music again.

Joe swallows, hard, the pencil completely abandoned now, cast onto the sketchbook as he slides from the booth, taking only four strides to get to Nicky, slipping his arm around his waist from behind, relishing in the immediate way Nicky backs himself up, catching the hem of Joe’s jacket and running his fingers along the zipper, jutting his left hip outwards and into the shift of the next song, guided by Joe leaning into him, moving his arm out a fraction to let Nicky turn himself around, facing him full on, sliding his arms about his neck, fingers finding the base of his curls on reflex, forcing Joe’s head down even as they keep moving, a slow, steady sway that keeps them pressed together from chest to hip, smooth, secure.

Solid.

“Enjoying yourself?” Joe finally asks, not entirely sure if the low growl is intentional, their noses bumping.

“Mm, more so now.” He admits, and if people hadn’t really paid them much mind before, they do now. Both too aware of reading signals to not feel the eyes that come, either as short glances or longer, lingering looks. It sends an identical thrill through both of them. Intense. Radiating excitement.

“Menace.”

Nicky smirks, “What of it?” Encouraging the flex of Joe’s fingers digging more into his hips, sliding closer with a slow roll of his own that threatens Joe’s sanity. Nicky’s fingers pulling just so at his curls, tugging just the right way, eliciting a shiver through Joe’s spine that is instantly taken advantage of, Nicky leaning in further, so close now that it’d be impossible to truly see where one body started and the other began, enveloped, wrapped, entranced.

The kiss Joe drags him into it is hardly a challenge, Nicky’s mouth has been hovering, encouraged by his endless teasing, the soft moan he gets in return low, aggressive, yet content, Nicky shifting just slightly against his chest, one of Joe’s hands finally abandoning their finger grip to slip about his back, thought they’ve both mostly abandoned the idea that they’re still actually dancing.

Nicky’s hand hasn’t left the back of his head, but Joe’s aware of his fingers sliding a slow, unhurried path down his cheek, stopping around his neck, palm flattening to let his fingers splay, a pet, not a grip.

Joe breaks first, but it’s a slow, nearly reluctant thing, aware of Nicky’s eyes fixating on his own, both mesmerized by how the flashing colours distort and enhance each other’s eyes.

Joe’s look illuminated where Nicky’s appear more darkened, and then Nicky just giggles at him adoringly and Joe breaks, tugging and pulling, Nicky following along easily, laughing the entire trip back to the table.

Redhead has long left, Joe’s sketchbook open, the abandoned pencil draped across both pages, Nicky resting with his back to the table, propped just so as he takes up his beer glass again.

Joe slots up beside him, doing the same, arm draped against his waist, damned near purring when Nicky slides into him, head tilted to brush Joe’s shoulder.

For a long while, they don’t speak, content to drink and enjoy the pulse of love and arousal hanging in the air between them, and when Joe actually does spot redhead again, he is met with a nod, which Joe returns by saluting him with the beer glass.

By the time the glasses are emptied, Nicky is back to being distracted, pushed into Joe’s orbit entirely, drawing slow patterns with his fingers against the band shirt still covering his chest.

Joe casually plunks his chin to Nicky’s head, sighing softly. “You ready?”

“Yeah, yeah let’s go.” Darting his hand out to grasp the sketchbook, taking a minute to arrange the pencil exactly right, close the book and slip it into the pocket of Joe’s jacket himself. Utterly endearing.

The walk back to the hotel is uneventful, keeping pressed shoulder to shoulder, the foot traffic much sparser, but enough people out and about to remind them that it’s still very much a large city where activity rarely dies down.

“If I remember, you made some intense mental promises to the bed.” Joe says, recalling the wistful glances Nicky had given it earlier, when they return to the room. Nicky snorting, amused he'd remembered, but not at all surprised.

“You didn’t finish your sketch.” Nicky points out, closing the door behind himself with his hip, “I’d hate for the memory to fade before you do.”

As if that could be possible. As if Nicky’s very image, heart, mind, body, and soul were not branded into Joe’s whole being and spirit.

“Impossible,” Joe laughs, “You know this very well, after all.”

“Do I?” Nicky asked, Joe kicking his boots off, aware that he’s barely finished doing that before Nicky’s got both hands against his chest, pushing him against the bed. “Perhaps I need a reminder, hmm?” Crawling up the bed cat-like as Joe scoots himself backwards, dark, heavy eyes trialing the lines of Nicky’s face, threatening to drown in the mischievous gaze he gets in return.

“And what kind of reminder might that be?” Joe asked, the words gravelly, husky, “There’s just so many to choose from.”

Nicky’s face is once again, inches from his own, tongue darting out to lick across Joe’s bottom lip, “I think you have an idea, I seem to recall you being clever-“

He’s cut off, laughing and growling as Joe rolls them over, easily resting himself against his waist, Nicky’s hands slotting to his hips, keeping him there even as Joe pulls the sketchbook free from his jacket pocket once more.

Nicky grabs the pencil with his teeth, holding it there until Joe plucks it back out, cursing about him being a _menace, a danger to society, a tease._ Not at all helped by the giggling he gets in return.

“Shush, I am trying to concentrate, you wanted accurate memory, did you not?” Joe’s honeyed teasing tone one of Nicky’s favourite things. Confirmed again by the low huff of his chest moving below him.

“You’ve concentrated in worse.” He reminds him.

“You’re a unique situation.” Joe frowning down at the page, the lack of a flat surface a threat to his work.

Nicky’s fingers do a slow slide against his wrist, pulling until the sketchbook is flat against his chest, Joe getting the idea quickly, shifting himself to slide down until he’s bracketed between Nicky’s legs, flat on his stomach, elbows carefully angled against him without putting painful pressure there.

“Better?” Nicky asks, gaze slightly hooded as his fingers find Joe’s curls, Joe turning to press a kiss to them.

“Much, now stay still."

Nicky hums at him, pleased and does as he’s told.

The sketch becomes one of their favourites, eliciting memories even decades later the minute either of them see’s it again.

**Author's Note:**

> I should take a moment here to point out that I am Canadian and live in Canada, and have never been to New York city. What I know is from research alone. Hopefully it isn't too bad as I kept it fairly vague.
> 
> With the self-reflection bits near the middle of the fic, I don't think Joe and Nicky don't consider themselves queer, and I didn't want to make it seem as though they don't. I personally see them as gay, and I think they either do too or would be fine with the terminology. What is fascinating is them pre-dating virtually ALL modern sexuality terms, so it is incredibly interesting for me to imagine how they WOULD see themselves-thinking from then to now. Especially with evolution and such.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Also this is a re-upload, so I had some other notes I forgot to include, apologies! (I mis-uploaded, I'm so competent)


End file.
